


The Lollipop of Doom, and other stories

by rhymer23



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack, Gen, Humor, One Shot Collection, Parody, Photographs, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymer23/pseuds/rhymer23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of very silly little pieces and parodies, written entirely as humour, but with an h/c theme. Among other things, here be deadly lollipops, a Gen Sheppard User Manual, random h/c plot generation tables, New Year's resolutions, and a shocking exposé of the cost of even the simplest of h/c stories, as paid by the poor nameless background characters who are forced to inhabit them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lollipop of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Every chapter in this "story" is a different, self-contained piece. Most of these stories were written as impulsive one-shots, and posted either on my LJ or on the Gateworld Shepwhump forum, and never circulated more widely. I almost didn't post them at all here on AO3, but enough people seemed to like them back when I posted them, so I'm taking the risk in the hope that at least a few people are amused by them here. But I am at least posting them all in one go; they're far too silly to deserve to be posted as separate stories! :-D
> 
> In the first story - The Lollipop of Doom - takes place during the episode _Trio_ , when Sheppard was seen with a lollipop in an early scene, before McKay, Keller and Carter head off on their adventure. The point of this _very very silly_ story is to show that a determined author can always find a way to injure a character, no matter how unpromising the material.

**The Lollipop of Doom**

Sheppard watched the trio as they walked towards the Gate. "Be good while we're gone," Rodney called over his shoulder. 

Sheppard grimaced a smile. It was the best he could manage. As the Gate disengaged, he turned away, unable to hide his pain. It had started as cramps in his stomach, but as he moved, it flared suddenly, like claws in his chest. He took two steps; almost managed a third…

After that, there was just a confusion of pain. Pain! Pain! Darkness! Angst! Misery! He surfaced occasionally, in a sea of dramatic and vivid metaphors for "that _really_ hurts." Pain, pain, pain etc. Like talons. Like tendrils. Shooting. Fiery agony. Stygian things. There were even lots of dot dot dots… Oh, and lots of things were excruciating, because that's a good word. _Visceral._ That's a good word, too.

When he woke up, he appeared to be intubated and naked beneath an infirmary sheet. _This is not good,_ he thought, but the dramatic metaphors interfered and prevented him from speaking. He tried to signal with his hand instead.

"You collapsed in the Gate Room," said a doctor without a name. "Landed on your lollipop, and drove it down your throat. We almost lost you."

_Oh_ , he thought. Anything more eloquent would bring out the dramatic metaphors for pain. He could feel them lurking eagerly on the fringes of his mind, like hounds baying at the scent of blood. 

"Unfortunately," said the nameless doctor, "the only doctor with a name is off-world at the moment, and we're… uh… not very good, and we… uh… accidentally… dropped you. The lollipop stick was driven through your throat and into your skull. We almost lost you."

_Careless_ , he thought. It was better than _oh._

"And as we were removing the lollipop," the doctor said, "it crumbled into fine dust, which spread quickly through your blood-stream. Turns out this particular type of lollipop is a deadly poison for people with the Ancient gene. We almost lost you."

_Again,_ he thought.

"Unfortunately," said the nameless doctor, "there is no cure for this poison anywhere in any of the Ancient databases. It will linger in your blood-steam and cause you periodic bouts of excruciating agony – though not quite so much agony that you won't be able to stagger heroically in spite of it and save the day. These attacks will last for approximately a hundred and ninety-seven days, or until you get shot with Real Bullets, whichever comes first."

_Crap,_ he thought.

"Oh," said the nameless doctor. "I forgot. Sorry. Time for the team comfort."

Teyla and Ronon appeared. Ronon did some manly bonding and sympathy, and Teyla hugged him, which was rather embarrassing, what with the whole intubated and naked beneath an infirmary sheet thing, but kind of warm and fuzzy at the same time, although he would never dream of saying anything because he didn't do things like that, and - excuse me, hello? – there was a great big tube down his throat, put there by that voodoo medicine that passes for a real science round here…

_Wait,_ he thought. _Does the poison make me turn into Rodney, too?_

He closed his eyes for a moment, secure in the presence of his team, and felt much security and comfort, and he thought about things like family and warmth and general _niceness_ , and all that sort of stuff. 

When he opened his eyes, Teyla and Ronon were nowhere to be seen. A very large man in brass armour was standing at his bedside. He appeared to be sniffing Sheppard's body. _Hey!_ Sheppard thought, feeling very vulnerable because of the whole intubated and naked beneath an infirmary sheet thing. 

"It is he," intoned the brass-clad man. "I smell in this one the presence of the Sacred Lollipop of the Implacable and Merciless Warriors Who Take Against Anyone Who Wrongs Them And Do So Hold Grudges. Human, hast thou eaten The Lollipop?"

Sheppard was unable to answer because of the whole intubated and naked beneath an infirmary sheet thing. 

"Thy silence condemns thee," the warrior proclaimed. "We, the Implacable and Merciless Warriors Who Take Against Anyone Who Wrongs Them And Do So Hold Grudges, have come to take our vengeance. It will be long and inventive and full of agony and torture."

_How did he get in past the Gate shield?_ Sheppard thought. He reached discreetly for the call button, but it inexplicably wasn't there.

Perhaps the Warriors Who etc. were telepathic, for Mr Bronze intoned, "We came in through the plot hole, and back there is where we shall take thee, human, for many weeks of torment which will seem like into the blinking of an eye to those left behind, because we can do sneaky things with time, because we are clever like that, and your Doctor McKay isn't here to tell us that we cannot, so we can get away with any sort of technobabble that we like, so there."

Sheppard tried for the button again, but it wasn't there. Atlantis seemed suddenly and inexplicably silent. 

"Come," said the warrior, "let us torture thee."

There was nothing Sheppard could do to resist, though he did try, honest. The next few weeks were a living hell, and the dramatic metaphors for pain came out into the light and frolicked and played like they had never frolicked and played before. At times Sheppard almost gave up hope, but nothing could quite extinguish the little flame of hope, like a tiny cute little torch, that his team would come for him. There really was quite a dreadful amount of angst and whump. Whole chapters passed in utterances of "pain!" and dot dot dots…

Pain…

Pain…

Agony…

(Yeah, like that.)

He also broke a mirror once (and then was savagely tortured with the shards), and a black cat ran across his prison cell. 

At length the Warriors proclaimed that honour was satisfied, and Sheppard found himself back in his infirmary bed, naked and intubated. "Sorry to keep you waiting," said the nameless doctor, strolling up to his bed.

Sheppard couldn't speak.

The doctor checked his or her watch. "Only two minutes late. Now, let's have this ventilator out. Oh, and except for the periodic bouts of excruciating agony – though not quite so much agony that you won't be able to stagger heroically in spite of it and save the day – you'll be fine, so let's get all these tubes out."

"And clothes?" Sheppard gasped, when he could speak. It was easier than talking about the horrors that had just happened. If you didn't talk about things, they went away. Push them away deep inside. Bottle up the angst. Be stoic, and do that wibbly thing with your mouth as you look at the camera with pain-filled eyes…

The doctor seemed reluctant to give him clothes, but at length consented.

Sheppard lay back on the bed. A moment later, he heard an uproar at the door to the infirmary. Colonel Carter was wheeled by on a gurney, followed by Rodney and Keller. Sheppard sat up. "Rodney…"

Rodney waved his hands in the air. "I hurt _everywhere_ ," he said, "and you should look at my hands. Look! Look!" He frowned. "What're you doing lounging on that bed. You've had it easy, back here on Atlantis. Just wait until you hear about the bad luck _I_ had."

"I can't wait," Sheppard managed to say.

"Your lips are blue," Rodney crowed. "I said that would happen if you ate that lollipop – and, by the way, I've still not forgiven you for stealing it from me. And you know, I'm sure I heard someone say that the President's on the line and wants to speak to you – full visuals, of course. Somebody's in trouble!" he said in a sing-song voice.

Sheppard got up wearily, and headed towards the Control Room. Next time the opportunity came up to talk sense into an alien settlement, he thought, he'd just do it.

Some days, he thought, thinking ruefully of the lollipop, just sucked. 

____

END, mercifully


	2. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the simplest of h/c stories requires a background cast, whether they are hapless doctors, angry hordes or nameless redshirts. This is their story.

**Collateral Damage**

How many people do you need for a John Sheppard whump story? Two, perhaps: an author and a Sheppard? Perhaps three: an author, a Sheppard, and an instrument of the author's will, whether that be a nemesis, sharp-toothed flora and fauna, a dirty splinter, a sharp piece of paper, a mysterious Ancient device, a virus or a thug? Some would argue that you can't have "h" without "c", and thus would add in a doctor with furrowed brow, and at least one anxious friend, who will pace up and down saying, "Oh no! What _would_ we do without him?" and then fall asleep on a hard chair beside the Sheppard's bed, drooling comically as they twitch in their angst-ridden dreams. 

All are wrong. Dozens of forgotten innocents are involved in even the simplest of whump stories. Here are some of their tales, smuggled out at great cost, for this is a story that _must_ be told. 

******

He was quaking with cold, his wet clothes sticking to his body. A twig was jabbing into his knee, and he felt dizzy from lack of food and water. 

"I cannot last much longer," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. 

But of course he had to. _She_ had been most particular about that. They had to stay here until the job was done. If they failed, her wrath would be terrible. Traders brought terrible tales of what had happened on Marlin, where a foolish elder had refused her demands. _They were picking up pieces of flesh for weeks._ There was no limit to her powers or her inventiveness. _The pen is mightier…_ That was what she had said as she had stood over the burning embers that had once been a thriving village. _I can do anything I please._

"Please," he had begged her, when she had snapped her fingers at him and told him that he was chosen. "I can't. I don't know how to."

"Of course you do."

And of course he did. The cruelly barbed arrows were nocked and ready, and the practice shots he had taken on the way had all found their targets. "But I can't kill somebody!" he had protested. "I'm the sort of person who picks up slugs to save them from being squished. I even rescue stranded mosquitoes."

His pleas had meant nothing to her, of course. "I need somebody in place with a weapon, and today it's you."

He had been waiting in the trees for twelve hours. Twelve hours in which he should have been working down the mines. Twelve hours of docked wages. His littlest one would have to go without the medicine she needed to stay alive. His wife would probably have to sell her body to the foreman. His aged mother would have to do without the coloured yarns that were the only joy she had left in life. The pet hamster would have to end up in the stew, or they would all starve. 

Perhaps it would all be bearable if only he had a little _motivation_ She hadn't helped with that, either. "But _why_ do I want to kill him?" he had asked, but she had just flapped her hand as if motivation didn't matter at all.

His victim should have been here hours ago, of course. A broken shell of a man lived out the wilderness, exile from a devastated world. He, too, had once been chosen. "She gets distracted by flashbacks and tangential snark," this man had once told him. "It all takes _forever_. Sometimes that seems the worst thing of all."

But now, at last, there was movement. Four people appeared on the far side of the clearing. He knew which one he had to shoot. She had plastered this man's face all over the known worlds, urging people to hurt him. 

He raised the bow. "Not the face," she had told him, "although a head wound is acceptable as long as it leaves no permanent disfiguring scars. The arm's boring. The left shoulder would be my choice. Do not disappoint me."

"What about the bullet-proof vest?" he had dared to ask.

She had flapped her hand dismissively. "The vest," she had stated, "is only bullet-proof when I need it to be. At all other times, it is useless."

As his target approached, he took aim, and released the arrow. His target fell heavily to the ground, bleeding.

He let out a breath. The job was done. It was over. Now he could return to the wreckage that was his broken life. 

It was then that he saw the large man with the wild hair, charging furiously in his direction. 

That was the last thing he ever saw.

******

Cyril the field mouse was returning home from a long day out in the fields. He couldn't wait to greet his adored young wife and all his newborn babies.

The boot that trampled him was very large. He didn't stand a chance.

******

"No," the priestess said. "You have trespassed on holy ground. We cannot help you."

Her voice wavered. Out of sight of the strangers, _she_ was standing, her long finger sharp and jabbing, her eyes promising death. _Say what I expect you to say_ , those eyes said. 

"Even though your companion is on the brink of death, we cannot let you in," the priestess said, digging her nails into her palms behind her back. "We cannot offer you food and water, a fire, and the best medical care that this planet possesses. We cannot offer you horses, either. He will have to walk back to the Stargate with his own failing strength, through wind and rain, through snow and ice."

"Don't forget the bridge," _she_ hissed.

The priestess swallowed. _Help me!_ she tried to signal with her eyes, but the strangers were too preoccupied with their injured companion to notice. "The unbreakable bridge is mysteriously down, too," she said. "You will have to swim the raging torrent, swollen by yesterday's freak storm, and infested with… er… fish. Prickly fish. _Fierce_ prickly fish. He must not eat or drink, because all food and water between here and the Gate is deadly poisonous, although, strangely, only to wounded men with dark hair. And beware the sabre-toothed… squirrel. And… and if you carry him, the gods will strike you down and there will be many… bloody… fragments."

The strangers left. The priestess slumped against the wall. 

Many years ago, as a young woman, full of hope and promise, she had sworn an oath never to refuse aid to anybody in need. For forty years, she had kept that vow. She had nursed countless souls back to life, and even the wild and desperate were never turned away, no matter what blood lay on their hands.

Today she had broken that oath. 

Only one course of action was left to her. She would take her own life, using the sacred bak'ra blade, and be one with her gods. 

******

There was blood on the holy avelline blossoms. Blood!

The old man bent his head and wept. He had had a good life for seventy years, but now the message was clear. The meaning of the blood was unmistakeable. 

The End Days were here. The gods were displeased, and they would fall upon the earth with fire and sword. 

The old man patted his pouch, where the vial of poison lay. He had enough to poison all the wells in the city. Death by poison would be painless, like sleep. 

He would save them from this retribution.

******

"I feel dreadful," the young soldier moaned. "Get me to the doctor!"

"Can't." His comrade shook his head. 

The soldier groaned as his stomach churned. He swallowed hard, and tried not to throw up. 

"The colonel's in there," his comrade explained. "It's the big infirmary scene. You know how she loves infirmary scenes. How would she react if we suddenly turned up in the background. _Oh no! Is he going to live or die…?_ then interrupted by you puking all over the place. She'd be _furious._ "

"But…"

His comrade thrust his a basin. "Use this. It's all you're going to get." He clapped the young soldier briefly on the shoulder. "Hope you don't die."

******

There was blood everywhere. There was always blood. 

"It's Colonel Sheppard's team again, isn't it?" the young woman said. 

Her friend nodded. "Of course. Who else?"

The blood was all over the Gate Room, all over the steps, all over the corridors. It all needed to be scoured away. The young woman's skin was cracked and inflamed from three long years of constant scrubbing. She longed to escape this life, but where could she go? She had ordered so much super-strength industrial cleaning fluid that questions had been asked in high places. Of _course_ she had denied being the lynchpin for some Pegasus Galaxy black market trade in cleaning agents, but the black mark had gone on her record all the same. She would never get a job elsewhere.

Although she showered three times a day, half-drowning herself in scented water, she could never get rid of the smell of cleaning fluid. She knew now that she would never get a boyfriend, never marry, never had kids, never give her parents a moment of joy or pride. 

There was just this - one endless cycle of cleaning and blood. 

"It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't so prolific," her friend said. " _Quick! Get this place cleaned up and ready for my next story_. Why doesn't she write one of those long WIPs that take forever to be updated? Then at least we'd get a day off."

After they had cleaned the floors and the walls there would be the infirmary sheets. Colonel Sheppard's uniform would need washing and repairing yet again. She was losing her eyesight from all the close needlework. 

She seldom had time off. She worked hours that would have been illegal in all civilised countries back home, and even in the uncivilised ones. 

Whenever she did sleep, though, she dreamt of blood. It filled her vision, flooded her mind… Then she woke screaming, and knew that the nightmare was real. 

There was blood everywhere. There was always blood.

******

Shocking, aren't they? Heart-wrenching…

And all of them true. 

There are many women at large today like the evil woman in this story. They call themselves "Shep whumpers", and they peddle their immoral wares on the internet. "Oh, we're not harming anyone," they cry. "Well, only our Shep, and he's got a high pain threshold - really, it's canon! - and he always bounces back. It's not as if it matters."

Well, readers, here is the truth that they never wanted the world to hear. People _do_ get hurt in a "Shep whump" story. "Shep whump" is written from the blood and tears of real, living human beings. For every drop of blood that these sick women extract from Sheppard's body, they extract the blood tenfold from their innocent victims. "No children or animals were harmed in the making of this story," they claim. It is a lie!

Ban this sick filth! Please write to the press, write to the politicians, write to the churchmen, and get them to join my campaign. Save innocent children from the cruel hands of these depraved women!

******

END


	3. John Sheppard and the Planet With No Whump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably even sillier than the two that went before. I really am sorry!

John Sheppard and the Planet With No Whump

It was a beautiful day, like something out of a children's book. Lambs gambolled fluffily in the verdant meadows. Rabbits bounced fuzzily through the fragrant blossoms. The clouds were little puffs of air from an angel's fragrant breath. Birds sang their sweet melodies from leafy branches. Butterflies fluttered languidly, and the sunshine was not too hot and not too cold, but Just Right.

Sheppard eyed it all somewhat nervously. It seemed far too good to be true. Was that a cackling villain, hiding behind yonder rock? Was the sky going to part like curtains on a stage, revealing the blood-drenched storm behind it? Was the ground going to open up and swallow him? 

He took another cautious step. A bunny rabbit looked at him with cute brown eyes. 

Another step.

Two hundred yards from the Gate, and no-one had attacked them yet. He had walked two hundred yards, without something happening to cause him searing agony.

"See," Rodney crowed. "I told you the whumpers didn't know about this place yet. Hence–" He raised the basket. "–the day off and the team picnic. Bliss!"

Sheppard was about to reply, but suddenly the perfect cerulean sky was torn apart with the sound of weapon fire. There was blood everywhere. Blood! It spurted! It gouted! Sheppard prepared to leap in front of Rodney to protect him, to take the bullet meant for his friend, because no physical pain could equal to soul-rending mental agony of… blah blah blah. 

"Ronon!" Teyla said sharply.

Sheppard let out a breath. He watched Ronon sheathe his weapon, standing unconquered on the field of frazzled and very dead bunny rabbits. "What did you do that for?" Rodney protested.

"Rabbit looked at me funny," Ronon said. "Bet it was a vicious plot bunny. It's dead now."

They carried on, Sheppard leading them. They soon reached the adjacent field. Birds gambolled fuzzily in the fragrant meadows. Blossoms bounced fluffily through the fragrant rabbits. Butterflies sang their sweet melodies from verdant leaves. Butterflies stomped languidly, and the sunshine was not too hot and not too cold, but Just Right.

"Can we stop now?" Rodney asked.

Sheppard snatched the map out of his hand. Suddenly, searing agony overwhelmed him. There was blood – _blood!_ ¬– and he felt the sharp stabbing torment of soul-crushing pain. But he couldn't give in. He had to stay standing, to carry on, to stagger heroically, to save the day, to keep going, to–

"Sheppard." He heard them but dimly through the soul-crushing agony and the siren call of approaching and photogenic heroism. 

"What?" He thrust out his chin; straightened his shoulders. Mustn't show them how much it hurt! Must stay standing, and save them from…

He stopped. Above him the sky was blue, and all the creatures around him were cute and fluffy, with big brown eyes, just like on a Hallmark card. "Sorry," he said. The agony receded. "Wrong idiom. It's just a paper cut." He managed a sheepish grin. "It's hard to get used to it, isn't it? Them not being there, I mean. Watching. Waiting. _Plotting._ "

They all stood in silence for a while, a little too traumatised to move. All those memories! The shows weren't too bad, but what came in between them… Sheppard remembered when "tags" were the things he wore round his neck, not things laden with agony and anguish. 

"We'll stop here," Sheppard said, because someone had to say something. _They_ had won if they didn't.

It was a beautiful day. Rabbits were gambling in the leaves. Lambs were carousing with the birds. On leafy clouds, butterflies were singing carols and everything was green and lovely and Just Right.

Sheppard pulled out the food they had packed. Strawberries, cream…

Something darted past his face. He started up… and everything sheeted white. He saw and heard no more…

Until much later, he returned sluggishly to consciousness. "Wh–what happened?" he gasped.

"You fell head-first into the bowl of cream," Teyla told him gravely. "You stopped breathing. We had to revive you."

It all rather went downhill from there. 

Sheppard was not entirely sure how it was possible to receive a deep laceration from a blueberry, but somehow he managed it. The internal bleeding caused by a sausage roll was baffling, but it really hurt. He choked on some flaky pastry, and burnt himself on some iced tea. Trying to save Rodney from a mean-looking butterfly, he tripped over a pebble, and got a poorly head. The rabbit blood, spattered over his skin as a result of Ronon's handiwork, was apparently corrosive, and the lambs turned very strange when they scented strawberries, in a way that involved disturbingly sharp teeth. 

"You know," Sheppard rasped, some hours later, as they carried him back to the Gate, scattering blood in his wake, "I'm through with days off. Let the whumpers have me. Do your worst, girls! Do your worst!" His defiance – which was very pretty – ended in a broken gasp. "Whatever they do to me, it can't be worse than this."

And, as the four travellers left, a very faint sound of cackling could be heard from beyond the rabbits…


	4. Gratuitous Shep Whump Generation Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you play too many RPGs and read too many fanfics...

** Gratuitous Shep Whump Generation Tables  
Vol. 1: The Al Fresco edition: off-world whump **

Also available:  
Vol 2: Accidents in the home: Atlantis-based whump  
Vol 3: In durance vile: prison-based whump  
___

**Introduction: "Just the whump, ma'am."**

There is much to be said for the gratuitous whump story – the short story that doesn't feel the need to bother with huge character arcs or deep statements about the human condition, but just thumps Sheppard with no apology. Sometimes, however, authors find themselves short of ideas. These tables are designed to help such authors create the premise for their gratuitous Shep Whump story.

All you need is a d12 – a 12 sided die. Authors who do not possess a personalised set of polyhedral dice can make do with rolling 2d6 – two regular six-sided dice. Be warned, though, that 7 and numbers near it will come up more often than numbers like 2 and 12. You will also find it quite challenging to throw a 1. You may want to come up with a cunning method to compensate for this.

For each table, roll you d12, note down your result, and follow any instructions concerning follow-up tables.

** Section 1: Oh where oh where has our Colonel Shep gone? **

**1.1 What planet are you on, Colonel Sheppard?**

Roll on this table to find out what sort of a world your Al Fresco whump will happen on

1 A freezing cold, icy planet, that positively cries out "hypothermia!"  
2 A sun-blasted desert, where every molecule of parched air croaks "dehydration and sun stroke."  
3 An evergreen forest, full of prickles  
4 A deciduous forest in autumn or winter, with branches like claws  
5 A deciduous forest in spring or summer, with lots of undergrowth where enemies can hide  
6 A place with lots of cliffs and rocky outcrops just made to be fallen off  
7 A lovely bucolic pastoral scene, soft and lovely and perfect in any way – and, oh, the irony of such agony taking place in such a lovely place!  
8 A rocky coastline, with cliffs, deep rock-pools and angry waves  
9 A dank swamp which is doubtless teeming with disease  
10 A hot and humid jungle with many denizens  
11 An estuary or sandy beach, with quicksand that's hungry for colonels  
12 Flames that gout from the very earth itself

 

**1.2 Whatever the weather…**

Roll on this table to find out ~~how~~ if the elements are conspiring against your Shep.

1-3 It was a dark and stormy night  
4-5 It was a dark and stormy day  
6-7 "This is the worst storm we've seen for a hundred years!"  
8-9 "I can't believe this storm came out of the clear air like that!"  
10-11 The pitiless sun gazed down mercilessly on the exhausted form of the parched man  
12 The weather was actually quite pleasant, to be honest

 

**1.3 "Go not there, Colonel Sheppard, for there resides the deadly ______ "**

This table will tell you what local denizen will be mentioned in passing on page 2, which may or may not become relevant later on. You will then have to roll on table 1.4: Is it poisonous?

1 "The legs! The legs!": an insect, spider, or other creepy-crawly thing  
2 "Like unto a sheep… but meaner": a harmless-looking domesticated herbivore  
3 "Nasty sharp pointy teeth": a big, fierce mammal of some sort  
4 "Don't go into the water": some nasty fishy thing  
5 "How cute!": something small and furry and cute. Apparently.  
6 "Why does it have to be snakes?"  
7 Killer plants!  
8 Succulent fruit or veg  
9 "It's a monster!"  
10 "The birds!": a feathery-or-leathery-winged avian  
11 Gribbit!: an amphibian  
12 "There are some who say it's mythical…": ghoulies, ghosties and long-leggety beasties

The novice author may decide to reroll if there is a mismatch between the result of table 1.3 and table 1.1. The experienced author will rise to the challenge, and will resolutely come up with a good explanation for the presence of a fish in a parched desert.

**1.4 Is it poisonous?**

Roll on this table to find out if the above denizen is poisonous

1-20 Yes

 

** Section 2: "Who's with me?" **

**2.1 Who's with me?**

Roll on this table to find out who's with your Sheppard during his whump-filled adventure

1-3 No-one. He's all alone.  
4-6 His entire team  
7-9 Only one of his team  
10 A secondary character  
11 ~~Some red-shirt or other~~ An upstanding representative of Atlantis soldiery  
12 Someone he needs to protect  
13 Someone who can actually give him proper medical care.

For all results from 7 to 12, you must refer to the separate volume "Dramatis Personae" to find out exactly who is present. The "only one of his team" result lends itself to a shortcut. Roll a d6: 1 or 2 = Rodney, 3 or 4 = Ronon, 5 or 6 = Teyla

 

**2.2 Why have you forsaken me?**

If you rolled 1, 2 or 3 on table 2.1, roll on this table to find out why Sheppard's all on his lonesome.

1-4 He's just on his own, okay? We don't need no stinking plot.  
5 Everyone who was with him is dead. Oh, the angst! The angst!  
6 He thinks everyone who was with him is dead, but they're not really  
7 His companions turned on him and drove him out. Oh, the angst! The angst!  
8 He's escaping from captivity  
9 His companions are in trouble and he's going to get help  
10 He's drugged / concussed / confused, poor thing  
11 He was on a solo mission for some reason  
12 His map-reading sucks

 

** Section 3: Bring on the whump! **

**3.1 Is there whump? Is there whump?**

Roll on this table to find out when in the story Sheppard gets whumped

1-5 Before it starts  
6-10 Within two pages of the start  
11 Round about half way through  
12 Near the end  
13 Never

 

**3.2 "What's wrong with you?"**

Roll on this table to find out what's caused the whump. 

For results marked with an asterisk, also roll on table 3.4  
For results marked with a plus sign, also roll on table 3.5 

1 Gun-shot wound *  
2 Sword or knife *  
3 A blunt object wielded by someone or other *  
4 Impaled with shrapnel, sticky-out bits of branch etc. +  
5 Burns +  
6 Complications from an existing "minor" injury  
7 Illness or infection  
8 Climate-related ailment appropriate to the result of table 1.1  
9 Mauled, bitten, stampeded etc. by local denizen from table 1.3  
10 Falling off something +  
11 Falling into something +  
12 Something falling onto him +

 

**3.3 "Let me see your body"**

If appropriate, roll on this table to find out which bit of the body Shep has injured. This roll can be repeated if multiple injuries are desired. 

1 Foot  
2 Lower leg  
3 Upper leg  
4 Hand  
5 Arm  
6 Shoulder  
7 Head  
8 Side  
9 Chest  
10 Back  
11 Neck  
12 Stomach

Note that the face is **right out.** Nothing must mar teh pretty. 

 

**3.4 Whodunnit?**

If the result from table 3.1 implies human agency, roll on this table to find out who caused the whump

1-4 Some random bandits or other  
5-7 Some random villagers or other  
8 Wraith  
9 Genii  
10 Someone on his team  
11 Some terrible but vaguely described menace previously believed mythical  
12 Himself

 

**3.5 Thing go boom!**

For appropriate injuries from table 3.1, roll on this table to find out why it's happened

1 Thing go boom!  
2 Thing go crash!  
3 Thing go bump!  
4 Mysterious Ancient Device go mysterious  
5 Can't move! Pinned down! Can't… breathe…  
6 "Who put that cliff there?"  
7 Flames gout from a chasm in the earth!  
8 Ground suddenly not there. Help!  
9 Shep go splash!  
10 Shep go splat!  
11 Shep go slippy slidey  
12 Jumper go crash!

 

** Section 4: It just gets worse and worse **

**4.1 There's no way home**

Roll on this table to find out why Sheppard can't just stroll through the Stargate and get looked after in the infirmary

1-3 The Gate doesn't work for some reason (see below)  
4-6 Radios don't work for some reason (see below)  
6-7 The jumper is broken for some reason (see below)  
8-9 There are hordes of enemies between him and the Gate  
10 There are hordes of enemies between him and the jumper  
11 He can't find the way  
12 He's forgotten who he is 

 

Answers 1-7 require the purchase of the Technobabble volume. In particular, see the tables on pages 21-28 of that volume, including:

Table T6: "And that's why we can't phone home": when good Gates go bad  
Table T8: "Something inexplicable appears to be interfering with the radios": how to prevent your characters from calling for help  
Table T11: "The engines cannae take it, colonel": how to break a puddlejumper

 

**4.2 "And just when things couldn't get any worse"**

Roll on this table to find out what else happens. Note that a single roll might generate more than one event.

1-12 The wound becomes infected and there's fever  
1-12 The denizen from table 1.3 leaps out  
1-8 There's internal bleeding  
1-11 Shep staggers on heroically and exacerbates his injuries

 

** Section 5: Aftermath **

**5.1 And then he woke up to find himself in the infirmary**

Roll on this table to find out what happens after he's back on Atlantis

1 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
2 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
3 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
4 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
5 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
6 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
7 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
8 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
9 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
10 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
11 An infirmary scene with tubes and anxious team-mates  
12 No infirmary scene


	5. The Gen Sheppard User Manual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations of the purchase of your Gen Sheppard ( _Sheppardus nonhankypankius_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some double entendre.

Congratulations on your purchase of your Gen Sheppard ( _Sheppardus nohankypankiu_ s.) Within 24 hours of purchase, you should put your Sheppard next to a Rodney McKay, a Ronon, a Caldwell, a Lorne, some firefighters etc and look for signs of attraction. If you see any, then you have been supplied with a Slash Sheppard ( _Sheppardus Manlovius_ ) by mistake. You can swap him free of charge within 24 hours, but you will receive no compensation for damage done by or to your Sheppard after that period has elapsed. To be especially sure, you should try your Sheppard with a large range of possible mates, since many Slash Sheppards are of the OTP variety ( _Sheppardus onetruelifebondedloveius_ ) and remain unmoved in the presence of the wrong partner. 

After unwrapping, you should remove the proof of purchase tag from the back of his boxers. When you have three, you can exchange them for... Well, you can't exchange them for anything, but we are sure you will enjoy the experience of removing it. 

Gen Sheppards come in many varieties, and it is not possible to tell which you have acquired until you take them out of the wrapping and watch their behaviour. This adds a delightful element of surprise to Sheppard ownership, and unwanted types can always be swapped in the online Shepswapping community. 

**Accommodation**

Your Sheppard is not fussy about habitat and is able to flourish well, whether in deserts or in polar climes. A spacious bachelor pad is his preferred housing choice, but he knows that this is too good to be true, and will be content even with a small room. 

The most widely studied type of Sheppard, _Sheppardus canonicus_ , is often to be found sleeping on a bed that is too short for him. It is not known whether this is a matter of preference or of necessity. Why not try your Sheppard with a spacious king-sized bed and see if his little eyes light up. You could always volunteer to show it to him personally.

**Feeding**

Your Sheppard will be easy-going about food, and is remarkably unfussy. He is fond of beer, but drinks it sparingly. When bugs are present, he might express a taste for medicinal alcohol, and show an aversion to salt water. If you also own a Rodney McKay, care should be taken when feeding your Sheppard citrus, though, since Bad Things can sometimes result. Experts speculate that the staple diet of wild and undomesticated Sheppards is the lollipop, but this is not confirmed.

**Recreation**

Scientists speculate that the Sheppard is distantly related to the hamster, since they show a similar fondness for going round in wheels - Ferris wheels, in the Sheppard's case. However, more even than wheels, Sheppards like to fly. If possible, try to ensure that your Sheppard has a plane he can go up in most days. If the cost of this exceeds your budget, give him some paper and let him make paper planes, or push him out of trees and off cliffs every now and then. Sheppards are also fond of trying to blow themselves up with nuclear bombs while saving the world. Please do not encourage this behaviour if you live in a built-up area.

**Compatibility**

Your Gen Sheppard will get on well with many other pets, especially Rodney McKays, Ronons or Teylas. Care should be taken, though, if your McKay is of the _Rodneus McSheppius OTP_ variety, because this is a combination that leads only to heartache. Sheppards do not mix well with authority figures, any type of bug, Kolyas, Wraith Queens or clowns.

**FAQs**

**Question** : "My Sheppard has strange hair. I've spent a fortune at the hairdresser, I've bought expensive hair care products, I've worked my fingers to the bone trying to style it, and it just. won't. stay. flat."

Answer: Your Sheppard's hair is supposed to look like that. This is one of the main distinguishing characteristics of a Sheppard. Trying to change it is like buying a tiger, and complaining that it has stripes. If you don't like it, you will just have to sell your Sheppard on eBay to the countless of people who appreciate the glory of Teh Hair. 

**Question** : "But _my_ Sheppard's hair can be styled. My Sheppard has long golden locks. They look _lovely_."

Answer: Your Sheppard is clearly not a Sheppard at all. Check his body. If he has curves, then you have, in fact, bought a Barbie with a Sheppard mask on. Remember: a true Sheppard cannot ever have anything other than spiky hair.

**Question** : "My Sheppard keeps getting hurt. He trips over specks of dust and breaks his arm. He chokes on ice cream. Cute bunny rabbits keep getting the urge to tear his throat out. I arranged a birthday treat for him last week, and he came out of it with four broken ribs and a tube down his throat. How can I stop this from happening?"

Answer: Your Sheppard is clearly of the All Whump All The Time variety ( _Sheppardus oopsadaisius_ ). This is standard behaviour for this type of Sheppard, and nothing can be done about it. You should, though, add an intubation kit and an infirmary blanket to your Sheppard-care supplies. If you wish, you can encourage these tendencies by planting subtle death traps behind the gentle facade of his home. 

**Question** : "But won't the International Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Sheppards take action against me? I don't want to go to prison."

Answer: There is no International Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Sheppards. There is, however, a Society for the Propagation of Shep Whump. Make them your friends.

**Question** : "My Sheppard is going around with a sword sticking out of his shoulder and his arm half off, but whenever I ask him if he's all right, he says he's "good" or "fine." Also, whenever I try to repair him, he runs away. He's quite inventive in his methods of avoiding medical care. What can I do?"

Answer: Your Sheppard must be of the type _Sheppardus whumpus fanficcii_. They do this. Get used to it.

**Question** : My Sheppard is looking quiet and mopey and grim, and I can't cheer him up.

Answer: Do you have a Rodney McKay, a Ronon, a Teyla, or any member of the Atlantis military contingent? Have they recently suffered an injury? If so, you have yourself a _Sheppardus leavenomanbehindius_ , who takes these things seriously. Your Sheppard likes to protect people, so why not give him his own little job - protecting your goldfish, for example. As long as the goldfish is safe, you will have a happy Sheppard.

**Question** : "My Sheppard's gone blue and scaly!"

Answer: Oh dear. You have a _Sheppardus bugifidius_. Somebody has to.

**Question** : "And mine's gone all thin and grey and wrinkly!"

Answer: You have a _Sheppardus toddifidius_. Buy a Wraith immediately, who, if given suitable incentive and some common ground, will help you transform him, like a caterpillar to a butterfly, into a _Sheppardus thunkus maximus._

**Question** : "My Sheppard likes to be tied up."

Answer: And you're _complaining_? 

**Question** : "My Sheppard's gone through a portal and..."

Answer: Stop right now! Call our 24 hour helpline NOW, or your Sheppard will get wounded and healed off-camera, and will get tempted by other women, and will be in danger of turning into a irreversible case of _Sheppardus toddifidius_ , all in the blinking of an eye. Get him out now! Our trained operatives will help you.

**Question** : My Sheppard keeps on flirting with every women in sight, and wants to show them what this thing called love is.

Answer: Your Sheppard is no true Sheppard. The so-called _Sheppardus Tiberius_ is now known to be mythical. If your Sheppard claims to be such a species, he is a forgery. Return him now.

**Question** : "My Sheppard appears to be trying to commune with chairs and lamp-posts."

Answer: Your have Super-ATA-gene Sheppard ( _Sheppardus lightupius_ ). They're increasingly rare. Cherish him. 

 

If you have any further questions about the care and feeding of your Sheppard, you can submit them via our forum. We hope you have many happy years with him.


	6. Shep Whumpers: a user manual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by various writers of whump and h/c saying that their other halves didn't understand their urge to hurt fictional characters. This was written to foster understanding. It is not, I hasten to add, meant at all seriously!

**Whumpers: a user's manual**

Congratulations! You are now the proud partner of a whumper. This guide will –

**"Hang on. A whumper? I thought she was a nice, normal person. I think I'm going to reconsider"**

No! Stop it! Don't run away! Don't believe the lies peddled in the newspapers. Whumpers are _not_ dangerous. Whumpers do _not_ maul babies in the street, and pummel their loved ones. Whumpers do _not_ have glowing red eyes and fangs. Whumpers are, in fact, completely safe and house-trained, and capable of great love and affection. 

**"But don't whumpers torture the person they most love?"**

Well, yes… but only the _fictional_ character they most love. Whumpers are not stupid, you see. They know the difference between fictional and real. They hurt the fictional characters they most love; they don't hurt the real people they most love – or, indeed, anyone. Think of the fictional whump target as a dog's chew toy or a clockwork mouse filled with catnip. A dog will chew a chew toy, but refrain from chewing your arm off. A cat will murder a clockwork mouse, but are famous for living in happy harmony with… real… er… mice?

**"But how do I know _I'm_ not fictional?" **

Now you're just getting silly. Or profound and philosophical. Or maybe you're in a meta fanfic…

No, don't be silly. You're real, okay? Now let's get on with this.

 

Congratulations! You are now the proud partner of a whumper. This guide will help you get the most out of your new relationship and will, we hope, lead you to have many happy years together. No-one can have missed the few high-profile tragic cases recently of whump relationships that ended badly. Several whumpers have been abandoned beside highways, leading to our "A whumper is for life, not just for the hiatus" TV campaign. Then, of course, there have was that awful case last spring of the whumper who felt compelled by her husband's anti-whump bigotry to keep her true proclivities secret. When her husband discovered, he over-reacted, leading to… Well, everyone knows the tragic result of this. Most people _won't_ have access to llamas, so that particular tragedy is likely to be one of a kind, but similar cases of betrayal and misunderstanding happen every day. This guide aims to prevent this. 

**"Okay. So how do I keep my whumper happy so she won't bludgeon me?"**

For the last time, she won't bludgeon you, no matter how provoking you are. Are you even listening? Are you just skimming this guide, the way people skim licence agreements, then click "I agree." Now go back and read this whole guide again. 

I'm waiting.

I'm waiting.

**"Sorry. Done that now. I was… um… a little bit distracted by… um… planning how to keep my darling whumper happy with… er… romantic treats. Talking about romantic treats: how do I best make my whumper happy? How do I provide for her and maintain her?"**

Firstly, it's not 1950. Your whumper is quite capable of maintaining herself, thank you very much. However, any relationship thrives on the mutual giving of happiness and little treats. In which case you're onto a winner here. Whumpers are exceedingly easy to please. 

**"Trips to Paris? Expensive underwear? A dream kitchen?"**

Seriously, why about a kitchen when you could be dreaming about whump? (Mmm. Kitchen-related whump. Knives. Killer dishwashers. Graters. Mmm…) No, really, none of these are needed. All that's needed to send your whumper into paroxysms of delight is a tiny hint that their fictional whump target is going to be hurt in an episode in six months time. 

**"So my partner's entire happiness rests in the hands of writers and producers that she's never met. That makes me feel a bit powerless and useless, as if her entire happiness lies in the hands of strangers."**

Well, yes, that's true to a certain extent, but many other things can make your whumper overjoyed. Pictures of existing whump moments. Vids. Fanfics. The really astute and attentive whumper's partner will notice which images she particularly likes, and will print them out and leave them scattered around the house – perhaps presenting her with one instead of roses on Valentine's Day. He is advised to keep several such pictures with him at all times. Waving one in front of his partner at times of crisis can diffuse many a domestic argument. 

**"Can't I just send The Boys round to the writers and beat them up until they promise to put in whump in every episode?"**

No! What part of this don't you get: fictional whump good; real whump bad. 

**"So I'll just make up fake whump-filled spoilers, then"**

No! Few things leave a whumper more angry and dismayed than a false spoiler that does not deliver. If you make up a false spoiler, your whumper will distribute it across the internet within seconds. When its falsity is revealed, you will have hundreds of whumpers wailing and depressed… and angry. Angry with you. Do you really want this?

**"But… but… I thought you said whumpers were safe!"**

Whumpers are safe and harmless. They won't actually _hurt_ you. However, they have deadly stares and they know all about creating angst. Just saying.

**"So how else does one annoy a whumper?"**

Never change the channel during a whump moment. Don't talk during a whump moment. Don't talk if there's the possibility of a whump moment. Don't disparage the whump target ("He screams like a girl.") Don't quote Monty Python. ("It's only a flesh wound!") Don't over-analyse the whump ("A bullet at that range, coming in at that velocity on that trajectory, would leave him dead, not heroically staggering to save the day.")

Actually, if in doubt, don't talk. Unless you are a confident and experienced whump partner (Advanced Diplomas in Whump Support may be available from your local College) it is best not to try to talk about whump. You will only get it wrong. Nod, and say, "I'm so happy for you." Don't try to offer an opinion about the whump unless you're totally sure you know what you're doing. Support her and encourage her, but don't try to be a whumper yourself. You'll only mess up. 

**"Oh! Sorry! I've got to interrupt you here. My whumper's malfunctioning! She's emitting a loud high-pitched sound and won't stop!"**

Stop! Don't panic. Your whumper is _squeeing._ This is quite normal. 

**"But… but…"**

No, really, it's normal. There's nothing wrong. 

**"She's turning blue!"**

If you are concerned, stay within sight and intervene with sweet tea and cooling fans (cooling fans to cool the fans) if the blueness gets too severe. Urge her to remember to breathe. It does usually help.

**"Now she's fallen on the floor!"**

It sounds as if your whumper has temporarily gone into "thunk!" mode. Many whumpers do this from time to time. Again, it's normal. Provide cushions, but do not try to prevent this from happening. 

**"This is worrying. Anything else she might do to harm herself?"**

Like we said, squeeing and thunking is normal and harmless. Whumpers do not like hurting themselves, as a general rule. If your partner belongs to the fanfic writer subset of whumpers, then you might notice some behaviour that apparently contradicts this. The fanfic writer can sometimes be found lying on the floor with their hands "tied" behind their back, trying to see what it feels like, or struggling to stand up without using their right leg or their left arm, or slumping limply to the ground to see where she lands. This is called Research, and is quite harmless. Sometimes your whumper might ask for your assistance in this – e.g. "Pretend you're strapped to this table. Now, can you see the colour of my eyes as I stand here cackling in the doorway?" Remember that the operative word is "pretend." This is research, not masochism. 

**"Okay. I think I feel a bit more confident now."**

Good! Remember, there is no reason why you and your whumper shouldn't have a happy time together for as long as you choose to share your lives. Hopefully this little guide will help avert any possible misunderstandings and causes of conflict. But don't forget the help desk. We are here 24/7 to help if you run into any difficulties. Okay. Not any difficulties. We can't help you if your burn the sauce while cooking her birthday dinner, or can't get the car to start, but if your whumper is suddenly exhibiting some strange new behaviour while staring at whump, or if you've disparaged some whump and don't know how to make it better, don't hesitate to get in touch.

The Society for the Integretion of Whumpers into Polite Society: Relationship Division

Email: helpimarriedawhumper@siwips.org


	7. New Year's Resolutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two unrelated stories here on a New Year theme. First we have Rodney's attempts to write a list of New Year's resolutions, "helped" by his team. Then we move on to a little story about Sheppard's New Year's resolutions, which contains the sort of fourth wall breaking antics and whump parody that you're probably familiar with, if you've got this far in this little compilation.

[](http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c76/ladyofastolat/fic/?action=view&current=newyear1.jpg) [](http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c76/ladyofastolat/fic/?action=view&current=newyear2.jpg) [](http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c76/ladyofastolat/fic/?action=view&current=newyear3.jpg) [](http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c76/ladyofastolat/fic/?action=view&current=newyear4.jpg)   
  
**The New Year's Resolution of Colonel John Sheppard**

"Sheppard!" Rodney's face was twisted with panic. "Hurry up! The… uh… baby has fallen into the… lemon tree and… and if you don't save him, then… countless deaths, disaster, etcetera, and… and then your whole team is going to die hideously," he finished in a rush, then let out a breath, looking smug and relieved, as if duty had been done.

Sheppard didn't look up from his comic.

Rodney's expression faltered. "Danger?" he said. "Disaster? Threats to innocents and to your team?"

Sheppard's eyes remained glued to the page. "It won't work, Rodney. Don't waste your breath. I've made a New Year's Resolution?"

Rodney frowned. "To turn to the Dark Side?"

"No." Sheppard looked up at last. "Not to let those Shep whumping authors get away with their tricks. I'm through with being whumped. After today, it's over."

And somewhere, not too far away, a group of women, scattered by distance but united in purpose, smiled. _If that's how he wants to play it…_ they thought. 

******

Over the next few weeks, Sheppard was as good as his word. When rustic villagers, their names full of apostrophes, came wringing their hands, talking about terrible beasts that lurked in the fog, Sheppard sent a well-armed team and a tank. When the weather was icy cold, Sheppard wore thermal underwear and a extra pair of socks. Inexplicable energy readings from the unexplored parts of Atlantis were investigated by MALPs and robots. 

After the first week, dead nemeses started crawling out of the woodwork, but when Sheppard firmly pointed out that they were, in fact, quite dead already, they pouted, shuffling away sulkily. 

At the start of the second week, Sheppard asked Teyla if he could take Torren with him whenever he went anywhere in a jumper. "They'll never kill a baby," he told her. "If Torren's there, we'll stop having those unprecedented and inexplicable freak jumper failures that happen virtually every day, and which result in tangled wreckage, bodies (usually mine) being thrown around like a rag doll, blood trickling down from large lumps on the head and bits of console penetrating my flesh."

Teyla shook her head. "I fear you would still get all that," she said, "but Torren, although unharmed, would be dangerously close to a fuel spill and you would have to sacrifice your own safety to save him, walking on broken legs and with consoles embedded in your chest, suffering excruciating pain to save the life of the innocent whose mother has entrusted him to your care. No, John, I believe it is wiser to avoid the jumpers for now."

The twenty-nine ninja assassins that appeared invisibly in Atlantis in the third week were sufficiently baffled by the Replicator doubles of Sheppard that Rodney constructed that they ended up killing each other.

Several children that Atlantis hadn't realised they possessed got stuck down mineshafts that they hadn't realised existed, but Sheppard sent down the combat engineers who were actually trained for the job, rather than going down alone.

He refused to eat unidentified purple fruit, or even the puce varieties. When the doctors told him to take things easy because of a sniffle, he did so. 

"I'm just going to walk along that hallway over to the left," he said loudly, at the start of the fourth week, paused briefly for the freak structural collapse to happen, began to set off in the opposite direction, then, with a grin, darted off in a third direction. "Works every time," he muttered.

Whenever he went off-world, a Marine trotted along behind him with a placard reading, "It's all just a horrible misunderstanding." As a result, run-ins with irate natives, incarcerations in dank prison cells and hideous torture all dwindled to nothing. 

In the fifth week, he updated his "things to do in an emergency" list so that "suicide run" was point one hundred, not point one. 

And, not too far away, a group of women cracked their knuckles, sat a little more upright in their computer chairs, and said, "This means war."

******

In the sixth week, nothing happened. The assassins went away and never came back. The dead nemeses stopped crawling out of holes in the wall. Atlantis stopped crumbling into pieces whenever Sheppard walked past, and no-one showed even the slightest sign of wanting to torture him hideously. 

Natives with apostrophes in their name still asked for help, but it was Lorne that they requested by name. A jumper crashed, after an unprecedented and inexplicable freak failure, but a pilot who _didn't even have a name_ managed to save his team-mates, despite terrible injury, and _even though his shirt was red_ (result of a curious laundry accident, but that's another story) managed to limp home, unconscious team-mates dangling from each arm, and then proceeded to linger in a coma for three days, hovering between life and death, while people wept at his side and pretty nurses gave him kisses. 

When one of McKay's experiments went horribly wrong, it was Zelenka who escaped the infirmary against doctors' orders, went on a suicide run to save the city, and was plucked to safety at the last minute, with much rejoicing.

The third sergeant from the left had a horrible misunderstanding while on a planet, was captured by the angry natives with harsh consonants in their name, refused to betray Atlantis under torture, and had managed to escape all by himself, despite gallons of drippy blood, when rescue came.

During the eighth week, Sheppard undressed in his room, lingered awhile with hardly anything on at all, and said an experimental little "ow!" as a past wound twinged. 

He did not hear even the slightest hint of a "squee" echoing from places unknown.

Lorne was critically injured ten times in a single week. New recruits whispered in awed tones about the great hero that was Radek Zelenka. Chuck turned into a spider. When the entire central tower blew up, it was Woolsey who shielded the helpless technicians with his own vulnerable but muscle-ridden torso. (Don't worry – the tower got fixed again between episodes; it always does.) 

In the ninth week, Sheppard had a little more to drink than he ought to have had, and wailed aloud to the unheeding sky, "Why don't you love me any more?"

Unheeding? No, not unheeding. "You know what you need to do," said the women who, from their own different rooms, pull the strings of a universe.

******

On the first day of the tenth week, Sheppard quite deliberately stubbed his toe. His leg got caught in the leg of his pants, and he crashed down sideways, bumping his poor head. Some hair gel got in his eyes, and smarted quite horribly. There was a small pebble in his sock, so he limped a little bit when he walked.

It wasn't much, but "count it as a peace offering?" he muttered.

That afternoon, he was shot. The day after that, he broke several ribs while saving Atlantis from a terrible yet unspecified threat. Two days later, he was horribly tortured by a bad guy who didn't appear to have any motive or even a consistently-spelled name, but who had sharp things and knew how to cackle, so that was okay. 

A few days after that, he was in his very first unprecedented and inexplicable freak jumper accident of the year. 

It felt like coming home. And as he opened his eyes in the infirmary, and saw his team all around him, smiling and anxious, he knew that all was well with the world. 

And, from a place not too far away, the watching women looked down at him, too, and smiled and loved him, and knew that they had won.

They would always win.


End file.
